Read Chapter 27: Aftermath

The infirmary smelled of iodine and salt water, a combination that clung to Élodie's throat like a second layer of frost. She had not left Tom's side since they carried him in—a cramped, white-walled corner of the Carpathia's third-class lounge repurposed into a makeshift hospital. A steward had draped a blanket over her shoulders, but she could not feel its warmth. Her hands were still numb, her fingers curled around the locket in her pocket as if it alone could keep her tethered to hope.

Tom lay on a narrow cot, his face the color of old paper. A surgeon—young, red-eyed, wearing a lifebelt that he refused to remove—worked over his shoulder with a needle and thread. Élodie watched the man's hands move, efficient and practiced, and tried not to think of how much blood had stained the deck before they pulled him aboard.

"He'll live," the surgeon said, not looking up. "He's lost a lot, but the artery is intact. I've closed the wound properly this time. He needs warmth and rest. If he makes it through the night, he'll make it to New York."

"If," Élodie repeated.

The surgeon paused, met her gaze. "We're all saying 'if' today, miss. I'm just trying to be honest."

Tom's hand lay on the blanket, palm up, and Élodie took it gently. His fingers were cold, but his grip tightened—barely, almost reflexively—around hers. She leaned closer, whispered in French, "You are not allowed to die. Do you hear me? I did not come all this way to lose you."

He did not answer. But his breath, shallow and ragged, continued.

A nurse touched Élodie's shoulder. "Miss Marchand? The officer is asking for you. He has the lists."

Élodie pressed her lips to Tom's knuckles, then rose, leaving a chair beside him for the nurse to fill. She walked through the crowded corridors, past huddled masses wrapped in blankets and furs, women who had lost husbands, men who had lost wives, children who had lost everyone. The air was thick with grief, so thick it almost had weight.

The officer was in the purser's office, a map spread across the desk. He was older, gray-haired, with a kind face that had seen too much. His name was Whitmore, and he held a clipboard against his chest like a shield.

"Miss Marchand," he said, dipping his head. "I understand you were with the children from Second Class. Rose and Louis."

"Yes." She pulled the locket from her pocket, opened it, showed him the photograph—two small faces, serious and shy. "These children. They were in our lifeboat. They were with Lady Winifred, who took them—"

"Lady Winifred." Whitmore's brow furrowed. "The papers we recovered from the water—names, berths, family contacts—we have no record of a Lady Winifred aboard. And the children…" He consulted his list, running a finger down the columns. "Rose and Louis Bennett. Third-class passengers, misrouted to Second. Marked here as unaccounted."

"Unaccounted," Élodie repeated. "Not dead."

"Not yet confirmed. But the official numbers—"

"I don't care about your numbers." She stepped closer, her voice low and fierce. "I saw them. They were alive when we entered the water. They were with a woman who said she would protect them. Lady Winifred Ashworth. She may have used another name—Marie—but she was real. She was with us in the Turkish baths. She helped us escape. She would not have abandoned those children."

Whitmore's face was pained. He had been doing this job for two days now, telling people their loved ones were gone, and Élodie could see he did not relish it. "Miss Marchand, the boats that returned to the ship—we've accounted for everyone who came aboard. Every survivor's name, every berth. If they made it into a boat, we would know."

"Unless they were pulled into a different boat. Unless someone took them in at first light." She held up the locket, the photograph catching the lamplight. "This locket came out of the water. It was not in my boat. It floated to us, across the debris—this is evidence. Someone dropped it. Someone was still alive out there, carrying these children."

Whitmore stared at the photograph, then at Élodie's face, searching for something—hysteria, delusion, hope. She gave him only iron.

"Please," she said, softer now. "I have nothing else left. Just tell me where the unaccompanied children are."

He sighed, flipped several pages, then pointed to the door. "They've organized the orphans on the forward deck. It's a grim business, but necessary for the records. They're being fed, clothed. We're trying to identify them before we dock in New York. If your children were pulled aboard, they would be in those lines."

Élodie nodded and left before he could finish speaking.

Forward deck was chaos contained. Ropes and crates and ropes of more crates, but in the center, a makeshift pen of sorts—blankets spread on the deck, children sitting in rows, some crying, most staring at nothing. Red Cross workers moved among them, clipboards in hand, tagging each child with a ribbon tied to the wrist. A boy in a sailor's coat, a girl in a torn dress. Élodie's heart twisted.

She scanned the rows. Row after row of small, pale faces. She searched for Rose's dark hair, for Louis's round cheeks. She called their names twice, three times, her voice cutting through the murmur of grief.

No one answered.

She found the overseeing nurse, a stout woman with graying hair pinned tightly, a cross emblazoned on her cap. She was writing in a ledger, her pencil moving without pause.

"Excuse me," Élodie said. "I'm looking for two children. Rose and Louis Bennett. They came aboard—possibly in a different boat. They may be here—"

The nurse looked up. Her face was not unkind, but it was tired. "Bennett? Don't see that name." She ran her pencil down the list. "We have forty-two minors, unaccompanied. All tagged by boat of origin. All recorded within the first hour after rescue."

"Not all," Élodie said. "I saw them in the water. There were other boats that arrived later. Smaller boats—"

"Every boat has been logged, miss. I assure you." The nurse set down her pencil. "I understand, truly I do. But grief can make us see—"

"No." Élodie's voice cracked but did not break. She opened the locket, thrust it toward the nurse. "This is them. This photograph. It came out of the water this morning, tied to a piece of debris. Someone carried this—someone who was still alive when dawn broke. I know it. I held it in my hands within the hour. And you are telling me they do not exist?"

The nurse stared at the photograph. Something flickered in her eyes—not disbelief, but calculation.

"Children from boats that turned back," Élodie pressed. "Lifeboats Number Four. My boat. The woman with us was Lady Winifred Ashworth. She had the children when the ship went down. If they weren't pulled aboard one of the early boats, they could have been picked up by the collapsibles. The ones that floated until we were found."

The nurse was quiet for a long moment. Then she said, low, "There were collapsibles. Two of them, half-submerged. We pulled people from them at dawn. It took hours, some of them were so cold. But no children. No children on those boats."

Élodie's chest tightened. "Then they're still out there. Or someone took them before you arrived."

"Took them?" The nurse frowned. "Who would take them?"

"I don't know." Élodie's mind raced. Lady Winifred had resources, connections, a life she had been fleeing. If she had survived, if she had pulled those children into another boat… "But I will not accept that they are gone until I have seen for myself."

The nurse studied Élodie's face. Whatever she saw there, it was enough to make her glance over her shoulder, check that no officer was nearby. Then she closed her ledger, tucked it under her arm, and said, "Come with me."

She led Élodie to a narrow stairwell, down into a storage hold. Boxes of blankets, crates of medical supplies. In the corner, a single desk with a lantern and a stack of loose papers—notes, scribbles, unofficial records.

"These are the reports from the collapsibles," the nurse said, lowering her voice. "The officers don't want them in the official list yet. They want to verify before they publish. But I was there. I helped pull them aboard."

Élodie's hands trembled as she picked up the first report. Scrawled, water-stained. A list of names, times, conditions.

"We didn't lose anyone after pickup," the nurse said. "Not once they were aboard. So if your children weren't on those lists…"

"They were never found." Élodie's voice was barely a whisper.

"Unless—" The nurse hesitated, then pulled a smaller scrap of paper from the bottom of the pile. "One of the collapsibles, the last one. They were half-frozen, barely talking. One woman, she kept repeating a name. 'Rose. Where is Rose?' She had no children with her. We assumed she'd lost them. But she was wearing a fur coat that didn't match the rest of her clothes. Too fine, too expensive for steerage." She handed the paper to Élodie. "We had no name for her. She wouldn't give one. Just kept saying 'Rose.'"

Élodie looked at the paper. In faint pencil: *Woman, 40s. French accent, upper class. Unaccompanied. Repeated name "Rose." Admitted to third-class infirmary for hypothermia.*

French accent.

Upper class.

Élodie's heart stopped. Then it began again, faster.

"Lady Winifred," she breathed. "Where is she? Is she still alive?"

"She was alive an hour ago," the nurse said. "They're keeping her in the third-class infirmary. They said she was too weak to walk. But she kept asking for the children."

Élodie grabbed the nurse's hands. "Take me to her."

The nurse hesitated, glanced at the door, then nodded. "You'll need to move quickly. They're moving her to steerage records soon. Once she's in the official system, it'll be near impossible to get her out."

Élodie clutched the locket in her fist.

She was not going to lose them. Not Rose. Not Louis. Not Tom. Not now.